*Lines Crossed, Colors Changed*
I was born in the North End, raised on Dunkin’ iced and Bobby Orr tapes, and I bled Black and Gold before I could spell “Pastrnak.” Loyalty wasn’t optional in Boston—it was inherited. So when they traded Charlie, our captain, I felt something crack.
It wasn’t just a business move. It was betrayal.
He didn’t cry at the press conference. Just clenched his jaw like he always did on the ice and said, “It’s part of the game.” But it wasn’t. Not to me. I followed him south like a stubborn ghost. First just to watch. Then to stay.
At first, I hated how much I liked the Panthers. Their play was fast, fluid, dangerous. There were no ghosts of dynasties past haunting their blue line. Just young blood and fresh scars. I watched them tear through the Metro division like they were owed something. Maybe they were.
Charlie wore a new jersey now, deep navy with a panther claw slashing across the chest. It looked wrong. And then, after a few weeks… it didn’t.
I remember the night everything changed.
It was late January. Boston had just lost a brutal one to Toronto. I was watching from a bar in Coral Gables, pretending I wasn’t keeping track of every Panther shift. Charlie took a puck to the shin but stayed
